John of the dead
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: You're trapped. There is no where to go, because the infection is spreading. John is counting on Sherlock- and himself- to stay alive. Will the manage it? Rate and review please!
1. How it all started

**_Please_** _rate and review- I'll respond in kind! I don't mind if it is positive or negative, I just need reviews in order to make my writing better!_

_Laterz_

_Sherlock x_

* * *

John knew his grip on reality had slipped, big time.

You see, John was in the hospital. He had actually, up until this point, had been having a rather nice day; he had had a cup of tea, two sugars, just as he liked it; John had also arrived refreshed as he had hidden Sherlock's violin, and he had been in a generally good mood- happy; so much so, in fact, he had almost skipped to work that morning.

Up until people flooded A and E.

'Whoa,' John had said earlier that morning to a passing doctor. 'What happened?'

The young intern wiped her blond hair out of her eyes and looked a little flustered. She was sweating, and looked quite sick. _Must've been an all-nighter,_ thought John.

'Oh, um… well.' She huffed, trying to find the correct documents. 'Ah, got it! Um, well there's this flu thing going around. People aren't reacting too good- they go all pale and shaky, before hallucinating and becoming…'

John frowned and turned his full attention to his colleague.

'Becoming what?'

The intern shifted her hand slightly- this movement caused John to look down. She had covered her arm, and underneath it was some gauze wrapped hastily around her wrist.

'A bit… _bit__e__y.'_

'_What?'_

'This disease thing they all have, it makes them be a bit bitey. Ask the other nurses- they become quite aggressive. Don't worry, Doctor-' she said, realising that John was concerned. 'I'm fine.'

John nodded curtly. He then sighed, and opened his mouth to say something, before someone shrieked behind him.

John knew something odd was up. However, he didn't realise the full scale of things until a patient collapsed and started convulsing on the floor.

'Jesus!' Sarah had been passing, but she quickly dropped to her knees and turned the convulsing boy on his side. He started to splutter and foam at the mouth- even though he was on his side, it wasn't enough. He was choking.

'No, no- don't!' said an elderly woman (who John assumed to be his mother or grandmother) in quite a heavy Italian accent. Sarah looked up in surprise.

'No, I'm sorry, Miss, we can't-'

'-No, no! leave him. _Morti viventi!'_ The woman in the shawl looked down at the pale and sweating boy, his eyes rolling in his head, then to Doctor Watson. She rushed forward and grasped his wrists, making him unable to turn away. 'Tell crazy woman!' She pointed (somewhat dramatically, in John's opinion) at Sarah. _'He is Morti viventi!_'

John looked desperately at the woman, before saying loud and clear,

'I'm sorry, Ma'am, I don't understand.'

_'No_ help! _**No**_ help him!'

John looked at Sarah, who herself was looking quite defeated. She was sat back on her heels, the boy (who had now stopped convulsing) just lay there, motionless. Sarah held his limp wrist in her hand.

'My god. He's… just…_dead.'_

There was a shocked silence, where everyone stayed where they were, until...

Suddenly, the boy snapped up. His tanned skin was now pale, and a mix of liquid and clotted blood was crusty around his lips- John's stomach churned. His eyes were milky white and glassy, giving them a fake, doll like appearance.

It took Doctor Sawyer a moment too long to react. Before she knew it, this tiny boy- of no more than seven years of age- bit deeply into the palm of her hand.

John allowed himself a small cringe as Sarah whimpered, falling backwards and kicking out.

'Oh, ouch! _**OUCH!**_ Get off-!'

Before anyone else could react, the boy almost growled- it was a deep, rumbling noise deep inside his chest which stilled the room and sent a trickle of fear down everyone's spine- before he started shaking his head, the good doctor's arm still in its powerful jaws.

And that, dear readers, is how John's nice day quickly became a nightmare.

…..

Half an hour later, John had barricaded himself in his office.

He was pacing, and trying to control his breathing. After ten minutes (and quite loud moans and groans accompanied by scratching at his door _did not_ help things) John curled up and burst into hysterical giggles.

Yes, Doctor Watson had been to Afghanistan. But the difference was he had been trained for it- not for this. After all, what do you do if something defies biochemistry and everything you were taught at med school? Something that only exists in movies?

Because, Oh-My-God, Holy-Jesus-fucking-Christ… _zombies_ were in the hospital.

Animated corpses, zombies, the living dead... whatever they were, they hungrily moaning for John's flesh, scrabbling right at his door _at this very moment _and were roaming the hospital. The dead (_zombies_ just sounded too bloody Hollywood for this terrifying type of moment)…. Well, there were up and alive, and so, so very _not_ dead.

They seemed... oh, I dunno. A bit_ pissed, _if John was honest. for being prematurly buried. Because they were very much alive.

_**Alive-**_ John's mind had snapped. it was safe to say darkness had fallen across the land, and these _things _were crawling in search of blood. They'd gotten it, from the blond intern and Sarah. And god knows how many others were down with this 'flu'- there had been hundreds in the hospital. Was it only in London? Or in all of England? Or…_ the world?_

He cursed himself for living in London, choosing one of the most densly populated areas in Britan for his home. Why couldn't he have chosen the countryside instead?

He was wrenched out of his thoughts as a phone text alert beeped loudly in his pocket. John's heart froze as the groaning stopped, followed by a few thuds… and more groaning than before on the other side of the door.

John's hands were shaking and fumbling, trying to get the phone out of his scrubs as some thin fingers poked through the crack at the bottom of the door.

Without a second thought, John stamped on the fingers- they cracked with a sickening snap and the bloody hand quickly withdrew.

John flipped open his phone and almost cried in relief as he saw it was from Sherlock. It read:

_If not dead, come to 221B immediately. If you are, can I use you as an experiment? You won't be needing your body anyway –SH_


	2. My BAMF solider

_Thank you for all your lovely reviews! It means so so much!_

_Sorry the chapters are up a little late- I have about 14 tests to revise for! Anyway, sorry for keeping you waiting, and I'll try not to do that again!_

_Sherlock x_

* * *

John breathed. Sherlock was okay- that was a plus.

A negative… well, John was practically surrounded by zombies. With no way out.

As the door started to splinter with the pressure, the good doctor groaned and pressed the call button on the still open text. It rang twice, before Sherlock picked it up.

'_Sherlock Holmes,'_ drawled the baritone on the other side of the phone

John exhaled in relief, pinching the bridge of his nose.

'Hey, Sherlock.'

There was a pregnant pause, as the scratching grew louder and the door banged- someone was slowly banging their head on it, like a slow bass drum to accompany a harsh, scratchy melody. John gritted his teeth and huffed loudly.

'_What is it?'_

'What's what?'

'_Well, you wouldn't be calling if you didn't have anything important to say.' _You could almost hear Sherlock's eyes roll. _'So what is it?'_

'So zombies aren't in Baker Street?'

'_Oh, the guys walking around- Yeah, they're here. I wouldn't call them zombies, thats way too cliché . Anywa, aren't they just adorable? Can we keep one? I need some new knee-caps to experiment on.'_

'Yeah, got the unsympathetic text too-' John giggled, albeit a little hysterically. '-but, uh… You know when there's an epidemic? You know how everyone is suddenly clutching at their throats and whispering _'Ooh, I don't feel too good actually?_' Yeah, well everyone has done that-'

'_-And?-'_

'-And they sort of flooded the hospital, and sort of changed into the un-dead here. In the hospital- Sarah and a few interns were the first I saw…. I dunno, do you call it- 'change'?'

'_There is no-one here to correct us.' _Sherlock pointed out logically. John gritted his teeth- trust Sherlock to be cocky when everyone's lives were in danger. _'Anyway, why are you calling and not coming home?'_

'That's the problem. I-I… I can't.'

'Why _not? You haven't been bitten, have you?'_

'No, 'Lock, I haven't, but Sarah has and quite a few others, I think. This boy, uhm, he-he had-' John could feel his heart-rate suddenly climb and something start to flicker through his mind, almost like pressure. He groaned- he was getting a migraine. John gritted his teeth and cleared his throat loudly.

'Well, there is a bit of a problem…' John bit his lip. 'Well, uhm, I'm in my office. And there are these _things_ just outside the door. If they break it down -which is a bit likely- then I'll die; if they don't, I can't stay here forever…'

The tension grew thicker by the second; John could almost hear Sherlock's brain work.

'_Hmm…. Do you have your cane?'_

'Yeah- why?'

'_Well, I want you to break down the door, and fend them off with it-'_

'- No, Sherlock, no! I can't do that! What if I get bitten?' John shuddered at the thought. 'Anyway…what about the others? Lestrade, Molly, Sally?'

'_Do they matter?'_ Sherlock huffed. _'And Sally? Real-?-'_

The door started to splinter even more, and John yelped.

'_-John?' John! Answer me!-'_

'Okay, I'll fend them off. Or I'll try-'

'_John,'_ Sherlock thundered on the other side of the phone. _'If you get bitten, I will kill you so hard you'll die twice. You're gonna meet me at Baker Stree, alive. Promise!'_

John slowly exhaled and counted the heads on the other side of the door- it had nearly broken clean in two. There wasn't as many as he had feared, but the milky white eyes really freaked him out. There were four, maybe a fifth one was lurking round the corner… not as bad as he thought, but John really could've asked for better.

'Okay, Sherlock... I promise.'

Sherlock exhaled noisily. John squared his shoulders, breathed and cricked his neck; he could practically feel the blood pooling in his limbs ready for flight or fight.

'Okay, I've got it. There's about five. Do we need anything at the flat?'

'_Hmmm…' _Sherlock pondered. _'Yeah, we need some medical stuff- numbing gel, gauze and bandages would be good__. We don't need food- you went to Tesco's only a few days ago.'_

As Sherlock was talking, he emptied his rucksack contense out over the floor, before opening the cupboards and throwing colourful bottles, syringes and pills haphazardly in. He shrugged off his thin black blazer (which he had thrown on over his scrubs) and instead put on his thick jumper and rolled down the sleeves so that they were covering his hands. John grabbed his metal cane, and threw the rucksack straps over both his shoulders.

'Right, okay- I've got medical stuff, I swapped my blazer for my thicker jumper and I've my cane. What do I do now?'

Almost on queue, the door broke.

John's heart froze, as zombie's looked momentarily dumbfounded, before one- an old patient of Johns, Aaron Mines, dressed in only a thin hospital gown- snarled and started shuffling towards John, arms out stretched and fingers curled.

John howled, and almost tripped backwards over the table.

'_John!' _

'Fuck!'

The zombies, undead, whatever the hell they were- didn't look too nice. Aaron had part of his finger missing, and there was thick, coagulated blood slowly streaming from it. The man moaned, and John got a rather unpleasant view of slowly rotting teeth, bits of flesh stuck in between the teeth. The rest didn't look too good either- the pale skin looked clammy, most had something wrong with them- a tanned woman, who must've looked absolutely stunning before this- had a broken arm. John's stomach churned when he saw that a bit of bone was sticking out, just below her elbow. The child- who couldn't have been more than six- was tugging at her skirt, hissing and snarling, blood running freely down the open wound on her cheek.

But it was the eyes that John was sure would haunt his nightmares for years: sunken, with dark shadows underneath their eyes, a white mist already settling over the iris and making it cloudy. He had seen it before, millions of times- but the fact that it was on a living (to a certain extent) breathing person is what scared him most of all.

Anyway, Doctor Watson rolled his neck and sighed with exasperation. Sherlock was shouting incoherent things on the phone, but what it was John couldn't be sure- the moaning coming from the advancing zombies was too loud. John saw no other escape as he slid his phone down, defeated, cutting Sherlock off.

So do you know what my BAMF soldier did?

Well, the army trained Doctor Watson simply _jumped_ out of the second story window.


End file.
